


Eyes Closed

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Series: Of Spitfires & Love Songs. [5]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, London, M/M, Post-Film, Post-WW2, This Is Sad, collins doesn't know how to cope, depends on how morbid you wanna be tbh, implications of Farrier being dead, like rlly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: Collins opens his eyes, and it's 1947 and Farrier is gone.





	Eyes Closed

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song of the same name by Halsey.
> 
> I made myself sad writing this tbh. Kudos and comments are much appreciated (or feel free to just shout abuse at me)

_And if I keep my eyes closed,_  
_He looks just like you,_  
_But he'll never stay, they never do._

_And if I keep my eyes closed_  
_he feels just like you._

Collins is on his third drink by the time he spots him, cheap liquor burning the back of his throat. With his fourth drink he decides that he won't look again, that he'll just finish this one and stumble back to his hotel room alone. With his fifth his eyes stray back to a pair of broad hunched shoulders, and he's met with a crooked smirk that makes something inside him ache with familiarity. The eyes are all wrong though, he notes, his feet carrying him across the dark room, slightly dizzy as he collapses into a creaking chair beside the stranger. So is the height, he realises as he rights himself.

It doesn't really matter though, he'll keep his eyes closed either way.

The voice is all wrong too. And from only five minutes in his presence, he knows that under any other circumstances, he'd be the last sort of person he'd associate himself with. Loud and brash. No intelligence lurking somewhere beneath all that confidence. _How boring_ , he muses, taking a long drag of his cigarette, feeling both pride and disgust at the feeling of being watched so intently. But it's 1947 and Farrier still hasn't shown his face. And Collins is bored and needs a shag.

And maybe it's wrong that he picks these men because they look exactly like Farrier. Maybe it's wrong he never asks for their names in fear of shattering the facade. Maybe it's wrong that he imagines Farrier's hands holding him down and not theirs. Maybe it's wrong he's climbed out of hotel room windows in the dead of night to avoid stilted conversation in the morning.

None of this concerns him as the man tells him that his hotel is only around the corner from here, that maybe they should go back there for a coffee. And his conscience doesn't stop him from standing and following the brunette out into the cold, along the dark streets to an expensive looking hotel that Collins could never afford in a million years.

The kind Farrier used to take him to when they had leave in the city.

He drowns that particular realisation out with several more drinks in the nameless man's room not really listening to whatever he's saying. The drink kicks in after a little while, and Collins decides it's time to get on with it, promptly sliding to his knees and sucking the brunette's cock until he tears a hole in the bedsheets. Collins doesn't put up a fight when he's thrown down onto the bed and stripped, the man leaving marks across his chest and thighs. But he growls lowly in his throat when the brunette moves to kiss him, bright eyes hard and threatening despite the thing glaze of alcohol blurring them.

His mind goes blank entirely when the man finally gets around to fucking him, wrapping a hand around himself to get this over with, his grunts and moans an irritating backdrop. Farrier's name is on his lips when he finally comes, the brunette following after him and collapsing down onto his chest. And, just for a moment, it's Farrier catching his breath, body weight crushing the air from Collins' lungs in all the right ways. It's Farrier's nose pressed harshly into the crook of his neck as he comes down from his high. It's Farrier's cock sliding out of him with a wince.

The fantasy ends when the brunette lifts his head, all the differences highlighted starkly now Collins has gotten what he wanted. The man is smiling dumbly, and for a moment, Collins thinks he might kiss him, but he manages to slide out from under him. Making some excuse about an early morning, and haphazardly pulling his clothes back on as quickly as possible. He forces himself to completely block out the man's half hearted protests and attempts to get him to stay offering menial excuses, and mostly just ignoring him entirely as he yanks on his boots. He offers an awkward goodbye as he pulls his coat on, stopping in the doorway for a moment before slamming it behind him, running down the stairs and out of the lobby as fast as his aching legs will carry him.

Never so happy to be out in the cold on his own again.

He fiddles with his lighter in his pocket as he walks, no particular direction or destination in his mind, knowing going back to his own room won't help. He won't get any sleep after this. Not with Farrier's face singed into his mind. All those painful memories seemingly laced with bright shimmering light cutting into him like a blade. Remembering the great hole the brunette had left in his life when he'd gotten stranded on that damned beach. Remembering how acute the loneliness had been.

Realising how acutely he still felt it. Realising that he probably _always_ would.

At one point, he ends up by the river, in exactly the place Farrier used to take him to tell him stories of the life they might live together one day, voice slurring yet true. And for just a moment, as he stands there under the orange glow of a flickering streetlight, the distant sounds of the city becoming little more than a murmur, Farrier's right there with him. Pointing out all the constellations in the sky above them like the smart arse he always had been, breath hot against Collins' skin as he promises to take him sailing one day, laughing freely and loudly at the blonde's mortified expression.

Then Collins opens his eyes. And the sky above him is filled with smoky clouds, the breeze cold enough to send a shiver down his spine. And he's alone. Completely alone. He closes them again, and can't find it in himself to be embarrassed when hot tears run down his face.

_Collins opens his eyes, and it's 1947 and Farrier is gone._


End file.
